The Body Whips The Soul. In Its

My Life Has Been Given Its Orders: The Seasons Seize The Soul And The Body, And Make Mock Of Any Dispersed Effort. The Hour Of Death Is The Only Trespass

There Is A Grace Of Life Which Is Still Yours, My Dear Europe.

Atlantis Will Rise Again.

The Canadian Voice Is Still Too Rustic.

The Poem, For Me, Is Simply The First Sound Realized In The Modality Of Being.